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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29333508">dean winchester: a biography</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearachilles/pseuds/dearachilles'>dearachilles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive John Winchester, Angst, But not that much, Canon Compliant, Character Development, Character Study, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Gen, Homophobic John Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, It's All John Winchester's Fault, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ouch, Rated M for language and violence, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, also yeah, and i dont like him, can u believe my mind could be this emotional, dean and charlie are siblings, does trauma count as a reason, fun !!, he fucking deserved so much more, i kin dean, if you havent got that yet, jeez not only three weeks, john is a fucking dick, listen im not saying i kin dean but, literally this is just me emptying my anguish onto you, not beta read we die like .. im not gonna say it okay, the finale only decreased the quality of my breakdowns, this is a product of three weeks worth of mental trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:40:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,080</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29333508</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearachilles/pseuds/dearachilles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>sorry for the people who are waiting on the new chapter on the other fic....that reminds me i need to work on that too. aaanyways yeah this gonna be three- no two... okay i planned this exactly at 2:43 am on my 43th hour without sleep and i dont remember what i thought then. but its either gonna be two or three chapters also im not resposible for any emotional problems this may cause please forward your therapy bills to the cw headquarters. i will update the tags as i upload the next ?? chapters but until then .. enjoy<br/>---<br/>a quick (used very loooooosely ) analysis of Dean Winchester.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the end of a child</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/evolvedbarnes/gifts">evolvedbarnes</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean Winchester, Daddy’s perfect soldier, God’s little puppet. The righteous man, the predestined life of a vessel. From the age of 5, he is trained to be an emotionless, tough assassin. He is an excellent specimen to be molded -beaten to be precise- into shape, then baked until he cracked. A hunter dad who disappears constantly, a dead mom, a little helpless brother who idolizes him, and he leaves his childhood with his mom. The first birthday gift he got, which was on his eighth birthday, was a hunter knife. Perfectly balanced, lethally sharp, and endlessly black. A true metaphor for Dean’s future. Of course, John doesn’t know about that yet. And he never will. He was never there for his children anyway, missing out the one final clashing of his sons wouldn’t mean much to him, if he weren’t already dead by then, of course. Dean looked at the knife, blinded by the fact that John didn’t forget his birthday, and hugged his dad. He was never the touchy type, he wasn’t supposed to be. So he was casually shrugged off, then pointed towards the splinted tree. Even if he was sad, he didn’t show it. Then father would be even more disappointed, and no one wanted that.</p><p>On Sammy’s tenth birthday, he got him a baseball bat, took him by the shoulder, and showed him a fresh baseball. His grin could be seen from miles away, shining bright and hopeful as the day. While John pushed him out of the door, he didn’t forget to glare at Dean, silently ordering him to finish what he was doing by the time they got back. Dean, he was cleaning the Smiths, making sure they were smooth and residue free. His father’s looks were clear, a silent warning, a whisper of threat. He was happy for Sammy of course, he deserved everything, but a small, just a tiny part of his body wanted father to be more affectionate towards him. Looking at the magazines, he clicked the rounds back together, and reinforced his walls one more time. He never got a baseball bat as a gift, his was a knife wound to the leg. John had told him to stop crying, so he had. It was nothing but a faint scar anymore, but it reminded him of something much, <em>much</em> painful. Now that Sammy could be left alone, he was on the road for longer trips. Whenever father wanted him to, he would accompany him, for as long as the hunt took. There was no refusal, no comebacks. He would show up randomly in between classes, during recess, after school, before school, during lessons. Didn’t matter, Dean always followed him like the obedient good son he was. The teachers could wonder, but they would never stay long enough for them to learn his name. He was a temporary face, a distant memory in their minds. He didn’t mind, because John had said loyalty was far more important than anything else. He believed him, <em>of course he did.</em></p><p>One night, when John was passed out as usual, or so Dean thought, he came across a movie on the television. Watching anything without John’s permission was forbidden for him, but he was sleeping, so it wouldn’t be a problem, right? It was a chick-flick, one of those overly cheesy funny ones. Father wouldn’t like it if he heard him call them funny, they were too girly for them Winchester boys, but they were. He glanced at the brown bottle on the table, it wouldn’t hurt to have a sip or two. John had said quality liquor was a man’s best feature, so it must have been good. Trying so hard not to squint his face, he changed his focus to the screen again. As he was intently watching, he didn’t hear John’s huff. Now the laugh track had faded into a romantic tune, and a man was shown buying a ring for his wife. Dean groaned, his father was right, this was too boring for a man like him. Just as he reached for the remote, the frame changed rapidly, displaying a happy man cooking food. Men weren’t supposed to cook, it was a woman’s job, Dean had thought. Then, a glint perked his interest, the "man" -he emphasized this in disgust- was wearing the same ring the other man had bought just seconds ago. The note on the refrigerator also included two names , Henry and James, both in a ridiculous, fancy cursive font. His disgust had dissipated, now his stomach was bubbling, <strong>but it wasn’t of hunger or sickness.</strong> He was curious, about what should’ve been and what was. His hairs prickled, and he dropped the remote out of panic. Luckily, the television was old, and it had also turned off when the device fell.</p><p>His father was looking, and looking. Not even blinking. His gaze lingered on the couple three milliseconds longer than it was supposed to. He gulped, and clenched his fists in an attempt to restrain his trembling. John cleared his throat, three times. He lowered his head, ashamed and unable to meet his eyes. His eyes were burning. His mouth was dry, he searched and searched his mind, scratched for words but all he could get out was a weak apology. He was met with a grumble. Breathing through his nose as quietly as possible, he added a quick "Sir" to the end.</p><p>When he felt John stand up, he sprung back to his feet faster than his brain could process. Whatever he did, whatever he was feeling right then, nothing could get rid of it,  the image of the man kissing the other’s forehead was burned into his memory. He heard the cut in the air before he felt it, his father’s cold hand met with his bare neck.</p><p>He didn’t dare move, it was a sign of weakness. His skin was stinging lightly, he was used to his educating touches, it never bothered him that much, as long as it meant John was satisfied. His hand slid down his neck, found the small cavity above his collarbone, and squeezed it until Dean saw white. He made him repeat his words, and Dean obliged, out of both respect and fear. Each time he said it, he would squeeze it harder, so each time he would try to make it more believable. His father never spoke of it once again after that. It was like nothing changed, the same old monsters with the same old car, a flurry of shabby hotels, cold food and school desks.</p><p>On his seventeenth birthday, he flew solo. John had said he needed to take care of Sam, make sure he was growing up properly. Dean had agreed, Sammy needed adult supervision, one that he never had. He prepared his weapons, revised his strategies, and went out the room without a second glance. If father had trusted him enough to handle this, then he should have been able to do it. The mission was simple, take out the problem, salt the remains, then head back. What he found out was a bit different. Two nuns, fallen in love with each other, escaping from the inevitable. Their hands were clasped even when they were dripping with blood, their crosses tied around each other, together until the end. The sight was sickening, he found an empty log, and crouched over it until he couldn’t feel his throat. He felt sick, and he probably was too. His knuckles were white, fingers stained with an ugly crimson. The clasped hands of Henry and James were a far, ill memory to remember, but the two images merged together, creating something so broken, rotting his brain slowly. He turned around slowly, reluctantly, and made his way back to the corpses. He kneeled tentatively, untying the long necklaces, straightened the beads and wiped the blood off of them. He closed their eyes, what once was probably bright and happy, now laid unfocused and devoid. He didn’t have the heart to separate their hands, and considering how tight their embrace was, he wasn’t sure he could even if he wanted to. He drew a small sigil on their wrists, something he saw on one of father’s books, a protection lock. He didn’t know why, but he hoped these two ill fated lovers would meet in the afterlife, if such thing existed. Halfway through salting, he realized he was crying. A lump had already formed at the base of his throat, making it even harder for him to breathe.</p><p>He didn’t care about father’s rules; not here, not now. <em>Not when he was connecting the pieces, leaping over pools of blood. Not when John's plan hit him in the face, blowing away the light behind his eyes, turning the bright spark into a gasoline fire. Not when he was burying his childhood with the nuns. Not when he was dropping his guard for the last time in his life, looking at the remnants of his freedom.</em> He took out the lighter with shaking fingers, then threw it towards the mess blindly. He couldn’t get himself to look at them, he had to turn around to stop himself from tearing up. It was too late, his knees betrayed him, and he found himself pulling at the ground, digging the dirt, salvaging through thousands of grass leaves, desperately looking for something to hold on to. He rubbed the wet earth to his hands, hoping it would carry away the sinful red on his fingers. Even is it did, the eye-watering smell of iron and salt haunted his senses. He tasted the love, smelt the redness, heard the burning passion, felt the everlasting supply of life. He didn’t know how much he spent on the ground, completely given up, dead, lost. When he got up, he had a cold glint in his eyes, unwavering and burning. He sniffed, and looked at the singed bodies one last time. His soul was in between the ashes, destroyed beyond repair. He had understood the message his father had given him, loud and clear. It was time to give him what he wanted, no matter how much it hurt him mentally, or physically.</p><p>When he reached the town, the sun was starting to rise. A new day, a new Dean Winchester. He parked the Impala outside of the motel, slung the weapons bag over his shoulder, and entered the room without a single sound. Sammy was sleeping soundly, Dean smiled wistfully at his brother's image, hoped he would always keep his naivety. Considering the crumpled clothes on the bed John was, well wherever the fuck he was. He closed the door and dropped the bag over the entrance. He felt light, warm water washing away all the dirt under his fingernails, and his pain. He still hadn’t heard the click of the lock. He was safe under the protection of the water. He didn't dare close his eyes, the ugly memories of last night's trip would break him again, and he needed to be strong. For Sam. For Sammy, the only family he had left. </p><p>When John finally came home, Dean was sitting on the table, two handguns disassembled in front of him. He reeked of alcohol, not an unusual occasion. John liked gambling but he liked drinking his life away even more. His father shot him a stern gaze, but this time he didn’t avert his eyes. He wouldn't. The power hiding behind his eyes almost challenged John, wearing a matching look of hatred. If this was the Dean he wanted, then this would be all he got. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i was *this* close to making the title (he's) br(ok)en ...<br/>also i have no idea when the next chapter(s?) is gonna come- it depends on the horridness of my mental state to be honest<br/>so ummm be patient please thank uuuuu &lt;33<br/>update: i decided on 3 chapters but the second one is gonna be longer, so i expect finishing it like...a month from now ig</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. rebound</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>change of plans lol! writers block just decked me and told me to fuck off this planet so short second chapter, long third chapter yay<br/>anyways yeah this is really short sorry in advance</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean Winchester; merciless hunter, a feared legend amongst the monster realms. Dean Winchester; tough, gorgeous, flirty chick magnet. Dean Winchester; damaged, broken, alone. After high school graduation, he followed his father’s path, silencing the small whisper in him wanting to go to college. A true man didn’t need college, university, or that kind of "pretentious shit", father liked to say. He hadn’t gone to one, and he still was more capable of anything than those softened pimps. And Dean... and Dean was a man, a son John could be proud of, so he obliged to whatever Sir said. He had grown up so much in so little, he had toughened up, hardened his heart, and built an unbreakable wall around his own self. He was John Winchester’s son and his son only. His birthdays didn’t matter anymore, he would either drink until he passed out on faded motel couches, or sleep his life out until father woke him up for another hunt. This was his life, and he wasn’t exactly complaining; not that he could if he wanted to. Beer, girls, guns; he had it all, under his hands. Life was good. Hunting itself didn’t earn much, but the stolen credit cards were a comfort to have around. They would make enough to afford a room and the Impala’s gas. Usually. Other times Dean would be sent to pickpocket out of drunken pockets, or he would sleep in the car until John got enough for two beds. No one said life would be easy though, he was still young, and free.</p><p>This was his only routine, an unhealthy one at that, but still a routine, the only steady thing in his life.</p><p>Until John disappeared.</p><p>That is when everything went sideways, his life would never be the same, but again, Dean never got anything he wanted in life. It was a normal hunting trip, the whole digging graves, and salting houses scenario. A two-three day trip, father had said, I will be back soon. He never forgot to order him to behave, if he didn’t know Sir better, he would think he said that out of love, or worry. Fast forward five days, and he still wasn’t back. He hadn’t taken the Impala this time, went with a bus instead; this was a first for him, having the keys to the Chevy for a whole week. It wasn’t all good, frankly. Money was scarce, and the motel owner was giving him weird looks whenever he handed her a card.</p><p>One of the biggest regrets in life was reaching out to Sam and convincing him to search for John with him. This was only supposed to be a week and Sammy started college on Monday.</p><p>15 years later, the younger brother was still on the shotgun seat.</p><p>At that time, he didn’t have a choice. The idea that family was everything was ingrained in his head, by none other than John Winchester. Family names, family car, the family business, it was in his blood to search for Sammy no matter what. So he did. He found Sam. His brother, who managed to escape John Winchester’s disgracing looks, venomous words and heavy hands. His brother, whom he tried so hard to protect from the lifestyle he was accustomed to. Now, he was dragging him back to his old life, filled with mouldy walls, and creaking leather seats, and stabbing bed springs. He was drowning in post-abandonment realization, and this was him pawing at the cold dark water to have whatever was left of his family back. The decision was over. It was time to wake up the tiger.</p><p>He drives to his apartment, the car roaring loudly in the quiet neighbourhood. Everyone is asleep, it’s dead in the night, and Dean searches for the block number with a flickering torch. In front of the door, two pairs of shoes on the mat. They have a welcome mat for fuck’s sake, the kid’s got a good life already. He quickly kneels on the coir mat, quietly gets the picks and a few seconds later, the door clicks. The flat is nice, gives off a domestic feeling, not that Dean would know what having a home meant, it’s warm. He gazes over the frames on the counter, Sammy with his friends, all laughing. Jess is also a regular in all of them, next to Sam like they were glued together. Before he turns away, a faded picture wedged in one frame corner.</p><p>It’s them, at a fair, the one where Sam guilt tripped John into letting them go.</p><p>
  <em>Dean had won them a photo strip at the shooting range, and the look Sammy had given him, it would be worth every hit he got, with all the sparkly eyes and toothy grin. They were both shaking with excitement when it was their turn; Dean nervously checking around unconsciously for John, and Sammy tugging on Dean’s arm, urging him to smile more. For the last frame, Sam had jumped on Dean’s back seconds before the shoot. With the sudden balance change, Dean had stumbled, a rare, genuine smile forming on his face. He had barely managed to stand for the picture, the moment it was done they had both rolled on the ground, the laugh bubbling inside of him finally erupting with hiccups. Even when their photos were ready, the duo was still on the ground, in a quite uncomfortable position, cheeks red and breathless from laughing.</em>
</p><p>It was one of the last happy days of his life, a memory never to be erased. The photo is worn out, visible fold lines, crinkled corners, taped multiple times, but nevertheless the meaning is clear as day. Sammy still remembers his brother, his real brother. A floor creak interrupts his memory dive, and based on the wood sounds, it’s him. He hides behind a door frame, holding his breath. It has been so long, too long since he last saw his little brother, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss him. He’s holding a baseball bat, so he probably heard his footsteps. He always liked a challenge, anyway. When the footsteps stop, he steps out of the shadows, eyes searching for a tall figure. A second later he finds himself toppled on the ground, an aggressive but still sleepy moose glaring at him. His answer is simple, "Easy tiger...!"</p><p>Getting Sam to join him in the search is hard at first. He insists on staying for his school, rightfully. After enough pies and hair jokes, he agrees, just for the weekend, he is going to start college on Monday. Then, Jess dies. Everything basically ends for Sammy after that, he becomes more open to the idea. They find a middle ground, and after 7 years, the brothers are back together for once more.</p>
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